Princess of Dune, page 17
“Of course they would! They are Imperial soldiers!” exclaimed a thin, florid commander.
“Would they indeed?” interrupted the Imperial Mentat, dropping out of his trance.
Irulan saw that the Emperor was deeply disturbed. “Mentat?” he prodded. “Speak.”
Anford Iglio turned to Shaddam and spoke as if there were no one else in the room. “Given the current information and eyewitness accounts, Leftenant Zenha likely did save all those soldiers and commandeer the task force. There is also a viable possibility that additional second-line officers might see the opportunity to do the same, if word were to spread.”
“If more upstarts turn against me, I always have my Sardaukar.” Shaddam smiled, as if he had been keeping additional news in reserve. “I call Major Bashar Jopati Kolona, with a new report from Otak.”
The War Room doors opened, and a powerful officer strode in. As always, the dark-skinned Kolona looked impeccable in his gray uniform, as if it had been freshly cleaned and pressed, though he’d just returned from a military operation.
He stood before the Emperor, glanced emotionlessly around at the gathered nobles. “Sire, as you requested, I took a legion of Sardaukar to the rebellious planet Otak. We decisively ended the matter that Fleet Captain Zenha allowed to get out of control. We provided a lesson for all the Imperium to see.”
Using a handheld device, Kolona activated a set of wall screens to display a parade of horrific images. “The capital city of Lijoh was earlier obliterated by the Navachristian atomics, but other flash points of rebellion continued across the planet’s surface in many major cities. The people of Otak flouted their obligations to the Imperium. They thought they were safe.”
Kolona played more images of towns massacred by the Sardaukar, leveled buildings, burned bodies, a crushed and dispirited populace. “But they were not safe from us. Otak is now free. You may send in new colonists, new reconstruction teams and investors, as you see fit, Sire.”
Shaddam looked pleased. “So you see, the Imperium can exert authority with an iron hand. Otak is a valuable world with many resources. It has now been purged of rebellion, and we can bring in new settlers, reward truly loyal noble houses, dispatch a comprehensive rebuilding operation with the assistance of CHOAM.” He rubbed his hands together. “We will let the entire Imperium know, and the message will be clear.”
General Xodda also looked impressed. “We have nothing to worry about from an upstart military officer who has fallen from grace. Look what our Sardaukar can accomplish!”
The room filled with self-congratulatory muttering. Irulan watched them all, looked at Major Bashar Kolona, even the Mentat. No one spoke aloud the obvious fact that these stuffed-shirt noblemen were not Sardaukar themselves. Not a single one of them.
I cannot remain long in this terrible place. If I do not find a way to escape, I shall go mad. Each day I wonder if this will be my last—my own death by violence—or if I will kill another prisoner instead.
—KIA MALDISI, secret notes to herself
Salusa Secundus was a harsh, inhospitable world. The desolate landscape looked as if it had been cooked from the inside out, then discarded into the universe. Once, Salusa Secundus had been the lush capital of the early Imperium, but long ago, it was devastated by an interfamily nuclear holocaust.
The planet had three principal climate zones, like tiers of hell, and only the hardiest human beings could survive in any of them. Little vegetation grew in the hardscrabble soil, except for the toughest plants, such as shigawire vines. The animals and insects were the most ruthless species, becoming tougher over time. Laza tigers, brought here thousands of years ago, were now apex predators, hunting anything that moved.
Salusa made for a perfect prison planet, a purgatory to test those who could fight and survive. Though the truth was hidden from the rest of the Imperium, classified reports available to military commanders suggested that the blasted scab of a world was a sieve, from which the Emperor filtered the toughest of his Sardaukar recruits.
Moko Zenha was not Sardaukar, so he had never been to Salusa Secundus before. But he knew what to expect, and found the possibilities intriguing. He could find the most motivated and vicious warriors here for his expanding movement. He knew he would have to fight for what he intended to accomplish.
With the other commandeered military ships still in orbit, Zenha ordered his flagship to descend, scanning for camps or settlements in the most inhospitable climatic zone. He had a plan.
He glanced up to the bridge bulkhead, where Duke Bashar Gorambi’s riding crop had been mounted on display, with the admonition painted below in red letters. “Never Again.” All of his crew drew determination from the bold statement.
As the dreadnought dropped through the rough atmosphere, dodging angry clouds, lightning, and dust storms, Zenha kept his eyes on the site he had chosen—a camp where brutalized recruits would be eager candidates to hear his proposal.
It was the most rugged and basic of all prisoner settlements. Reinforced shelters were scattered in a haphazard manner, joined by guarded supply hutments and medical tents, near expansive graveyards. Many of the prisoners exiled to Salusa did not survive daily life for very long, much less the rigors of Sardaukar indoctrination.
Formal training centers were located in the more hospitable zones, places where Sardaukar officers could drill candidates they had drawn from the prison population. Zenha knew, though, that this particular settlement was not for active training. It was a dumping ground for those who had the strength and resources to survive, but were deemed unworthy to become Sardaukar. Zenha could take advantage of that. The ruthless fighters there would be looking for a way out, but would likely resist command or discipline. He would make the effort.
Zenha’s bridge officers wore pale blue uniforms with black trim, with no previous insignia, no sign of the Corrino lion. LeftMajor Astop and Staff Captain Pilwu ran their scans as the flagship closed in on the survival camp.
“No air-defense systems for us to worry about, Commander-General,” Astop reported. “The prisoners won’t be shooting at us.”
“Sardaukar would never bother with basic defenses,” Zenha said. “Who would be insane enough to travel to Salusa by choice?” It was just another part of their enemy’s overconfidence.
“The camp inhabitants have seen us, sir,” Pilwu reported, adjusting the screen to magnify the squalid view. “Fighters forming below.”
As part of their training, these prisoners were often harassed by superior military might, hunted down by Sardaukar recruits. “They must be used to practice attacks. We’ll offer the people something different.”
He sought ruthless fighters to join him, desperate men and women who had scraped out an existence here. He would offer them an alternative to their harsh exile. None of these hardened, bitter people had any reason for loyalty to the Padishah Emperor. They had been deemed to be of inferior quality, undisciplined and expendable. But Zenha knew they were tough.
The flagship came down outside the camp, with ship’s defenses active and shields ready. The refugees made their way forward, cautious but hungry, clearly looking for any opportunity to attack. Watching them from the bridge screens, Zenha imagined their hard-bitten lives, how they would fight to scavenge any scraps, but they must know they could not win against an Imperial warship.
He deployed soldiers around the dreadnought to maintain a perimeter against attacks. A crew of engineers pulled out ground machinery and prefab structures to set up a small encampment in front of the flagship. Zenha needed an open place where he could meet with prisoner representatives. He hoped they would listen before bloodshed was necessary, but he might have to kill a few of them first, to make a point and get their respect.
When he was ready, he donned his First Officer uniform. The red stains from Gorambi’s assassination had been laundered out. He emerged from the flagship and stood in the middle of his guarded camp, then dispatched an armed messenger, inviting representatives from the prisoners to come speak with him.
“Commander-General Moko Zenha calls for volunteers. You are all fighters or you would not still be alive. You received some Sardaukar training, but you were disposed of here. Would you like an opportunity to leave Salusa Secundus? Join the Commander-General in his own fight against Imperial corruption, and you will receive passage away from Salusa. New uniforms. Food. A new chance. But you must be willing to fight against Emperor Shaddam IV—the man who sent you to this place.”
Zenha had timed his next move with the delivery of the message. Two large troop transports landed adjacent to the dreadnought, waiting to be filled with eager recruits. He stepped down the boarding ramp to face them himself, gazing around the landscape. He smelled the sour air, noted the ominous clouds in the skies—and saw the squalid camp where the survivors eked out a miserable existence.
Within an hour, after dark had fallen, the boldest prisoners cautiously approached from the camp, clearly suspicious that this was some Sardaukar trick. One muscular warlord with a battered training sword threw himself on one of the perimeter guards, and Zenha’s men resoundingly cut him down, then drove back several other surly prisoners, killing everyone who came up against them.
Zenha stepped into the bright lights of his camp, and shouted through a voice amplifier. “I have made my point. I want you to fight. I need you to fight. But do not try to kill those who offer you a way off this planet. You’ll have a chance for a life of fighting with my troops—a battle you have a chance to win! Not these rigged training debacles that have already killed so many of you.”
Zenha walked closer to the perimeter, while his guards kept their weapons ready. He could see the menacing Salusan survivors gathered outside their camp. He squared his shoulders. “Now, who wants to prove themselves?”
Before long, seven of the toughest-looking men came forward, still suspicious, but their eyes held a glimmer of hope as well as anger. Zenha watched them demonstrate their prowess, showing how they could fight with the weapons they had used in their survival camp. He had them face off in hand-to-hand combat, and observed closely. Their techniques were brutal and unpolished, but violently effective. He called a halt, although they looked perfectly willing to murder each other.
“Save your killing for later,” he warned.
The fighters were not entirely convinced of his reasons for coming here, nor did they believe what he offered them. They had survived on Salusa for this long, and they had the potential to become Sardaukar, but he was giving them something the Sardaukar corps did not—a degree of freedom, and a promise of even more if they fought at his side. He offered them hope for new lives.
As the demonstrations and questioning continued, Zenha heard movement from the opposite side of the camp, a much larger group of hard-core survivors led by a pair of muscular scarred men who wore patched and ill-fitting Sardaukar uniforms. They both carried long, well-maintained swords, while most of the others bore only repurposed or patchwork weapons. The two aggressive leaders approached the perimeter, glowering scornfully at Zenha and his uniformed men. “Imperial swine!”
More of Zenha’s forces emerged from the dreadnought, armed with blades, flechette pistols, and even a few lasguns. None of these ragged survivors would be wearing a personal shield. The flagship’s mounted weapons warmed up, swinging about to target the oncoming, menacing group.
But Zenha raised his hand to cut off any initial action from his own people. “We are not Imperials!” he shouted back. “Not anymore. And neither are you—no matter the Sardaukar uniforms you wear.”
One of the two burly uniformed men snorted and plucked at his old uniform, no doubt taken from the body of a fallen officer.
Zenha continued, “Our goals and yours are aligned. Join us and fight against those who abandoned you here. We know the Sardaukar tried to train you and then dumped you in the wasteland. Use what you learned—and turn it against them. Blame the Emperor. He threw me to the wolves, too. I’ll give you a chance to slap him in the face.”
The approaching pair of warlords laughed. Leading their group of fighters, they moved to the perimeter, very close to Zenha’s guards.
The ferocious-looking giant at the forefront had piercing black eyes. He strode up to Zenha and looked down at him. “We should fight for you? Are you worthy?” He sniffed, stepped to the side, noted the lack of insignia on his uniform. “I could crush you in a minute.”
Zenha didn’t flinch. “It might take longer than that, and don’t expect to come away with no wounds of your own.”
The big man guffawed. “I am Kenjo the Magnificent! Be afraid of me, little soldier! Do you know the reputation of the Sardaukar?” He pounded the ill-fitting uniform on his chest.
“Fear has nothing to do with anything I do. I do not back down.” Zen- ha drew his own sword, held it ready. Kenjo was talking too much, not fighting. He was all bluster, testing how Zenha would react.
“Why would I join your army? I am a ruler here, a warlord—a Sardaukar officer!”
Zenha noted a black smear on the shoulder of his uniform shirt, sloppy for a true member of the Emperor’s elite troops.
A woman in the group called out, “He’s not really Sardaukar.” She stepped forward wearing a tattered camouflage blouse and trousers, and a tilted beret over matted red hair. Her wide belt carried an assortment of small but deadly weapons—a stunner, two daggers, a cluster of throwing stars, and a garrote with tiny needles on the strand. She gripped a short sword in her left hand. “He just stole the uniform off a dead body. So did his henchman Ritt’n there.”
The other man in Sardaukar uniform flushed deep red.
Zenha regarded the woman’s broad, hardened face, noting that the underlying beauty in her features was overshadowed by a lifetime of pain and hidden by grime.
The warlord glowered at her. “Kia Maldisi! I’ll kill you and dry your salted flesh to eat during the next cold snap!” He brandished his sword at her.
Ignoring him, Maldisi pushed her way forward, and the other fuming fighters flinched. Perhaps she was one to watch.
“They failed to be real Sardaukar,” the woman continued, “though we have all learned to fight and survive. Kenjo likes to intimidate, but he doesn’t like to actually fight.” She sneered at him. “It is boring.” Aloof, the woman turned back to Zenha. “You look more interesting. I might like to join your game.”
“You would not have a chance!” The warlord puffed up his chest, but even he seemed to show a flicker of uneasiness near Kia Maldisi.
Half a dozen more women emerged from the group, looking almost as tough as Maldisi. “We want to join, too!”
Kenjo guffawed, while Zenha inspected the women. “And can you fight?”
Insulted, Maldisi raised her chin. “We survived on Salusa, haven’t we? We’re not the usual prostitutes in the prison districts, not the women who follow trainees around in the dark. And we certainly aren’t the high-toned courtesans of Sardaukar commanders!” She let out a bitter chuckle. “You might not be able to handle us, little soldier.”
Her companions chuckled.
“He wants fighting men, not whores!” roared Ritt’n, the henchman.
“Consider my application to join your forces and get off this world,” Maldisi said, glancing at Zenha, then turning to the two big men in salvaged Sardaukar uniforms.
Kenjo and Ritt’n both drew their swords, but Maldisi strode abruptly toward them—and the men balked.
She chuckled. “There, see the fear in their eyes? The prisoners here get in a lot of fights, and these two have seen me take down men bigger than they are.”
Though Maldisi waved her short sword as a distraction, her other hand snatched a throwing star from her belt, and she flung it in a blur. Kenjo reeled, and his jittering hands reached up in an attempt to find the sharp weapon embedded in the middle of his forehead. Blood poured down his face, onto his salvaged Sardaukar uniform, and then his knees buckled. He collapsed lifeless onto the ground.
His terrified henchman turned and bolted, but Maldisi pulled out one of her daggers this time. She let Ritt’n run a few steps, as if considering whether or not he was worth the effort, then flicked the knife. It spun in the air and plunged into his upper spine. The point sprouted from the hollow of his throat. Momentum kept him moving forward a few more steps before he sprawled on the rocks.
“You’ll find me acceptable,” she said to Zenha, but didn’t bother to look back at him as she went to the pair of bodies and casually retrieved her weapons.
The crowd hooted and cheered, as if none of them had felt any loyalty to the Sardaukar poseurs.
“I am impressed,” Zenha admitted. “But don’t make me regret taking you … all of you. If you’ve survived here, you might have a place in my army.” He suddenly realized he needed a name. “My … Liberation Fleet.”
Several candidates shouted, and more volunteers came forward, men and women.
Now he had enough fighters to fill the additional ships he had commandeered. Enough for a battle engagement—once he figured out what his actual goal was.
A mouth covering can create an effective mask, but we all carry many disguises inside ourselves.
—The Mirage and the Man, Fremen wisdom
From an alcove wardrobe, Shadout Mapes found a household servant’s uniform for Chani, similar to her own. “Wear this, and you can follow me without being noticed.” She yanked down Chani’s hood, mussed her cropped hair.
Frowning with questions, Chani removed the assistant’s uniform her father had asked her to wear. “What is wrong with my own garments?”
Mapes wrapped the drab covering over the teenager’s shoulders and stashed her other clothing inside the wardrobe. “We all wear disguises, and we both share secrets, don’t we? The purpose of these clothes is to ensure that no one will look.”
The shadout stepped back and inspected Chani’s new disguise, then covered her head with another piece of cloth. “Liet wants you to observe.”
